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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30113553">pen to skin to heart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesdayevening/pseuds/wednesdayevening'>wednesdayevening</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Anxiety, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It's accidental, Panic Attacks, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, its the obligatory soulmate writing au boys, just a tad, no beta we die like men</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:48:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,951</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30113553</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesdayevening/pseuds/wednesdayevening</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil thought he only ever had one soulmate. Kristin. Her handwriting had been tattooed on his body since he could remember – little doodles on his arms and misspelled kindergarten words on his wrists. They’d grown up together, unknown to one another except through notes and tiny Texta love hearts. When they were older and all hope of meeting was fading, he’d mentioned he was streaming, and Kristin had scoured the entire Twitch.com site in the hopes of finding him. She had, and they were happy, and Phil had thought nothing of the situation since then. He had assumed he was, like most people, destined for only one soulmate. Not that he was complaining. Kristin was more than enough. This – this is a surprise. A pleasant surprise. </p><p>or, sbi are soulmates.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kristin Rosales Watson/Phil Watson, Technoblade &amp; Phil Watson, TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot &amp; Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot &amp; Technoblade &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>108</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1553</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>pen to skin to heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>not too proud of this one, but enjoy the fluff &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“We’re out of milk, I think,” Kristin says, and that goes on his hand. He forgets it otherwise – old man shit, Techno would say.</p><p>He’s in the dairy section of the supermarket trying to remember which milk they drink again – A2? Dairy Farmers? Why the <em>fuck </em>are there so many different brands of <em>cow piss </em>– when his phone vibrates.</p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>“<em>Philllllllllza Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinecraft</em>.”</p><p>Phil closes his eyes with a faux-disappointed sigh. “Hey, Wil. What’s up?”</p><p>“Philza Minecraft is so brave,” Wilbur sings. His words are slightly slurred. He’s been drinking, clearly. “He’s the bravest man I ever met. Philza Minecraft is – “</p><p>“Sing it one more time and I’ll punt your lanky ass,” Phil remarks. “You alright, Wil?”</p><p>“Peachy,” Wilbur giggles. “Princess Peach from Mario. I’m her, Phil.”</p><p>“Alright, mate.” Phil’s been the subject of many drunk calls during his friendship with Wil. This kind of stupidity is normal now.</p><p>Wilbur’s quiet for a moment. Phil scans the aisle, gaze drilling holes into the milk bottles. The white-bright artificial supermarket light is giving him a headache. His stream today had been long and exhausting – over five hours of a chaotic copypasta-ering chat. He deliberates over hanging up on Wilbur and calling Kristin for a minute. He’s thirty-two, for fucks sake. Half a stack years old. He should be able to buy a litre of milk.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” Wilbur asks, and Phil realises he’s said that aloud. He sighs.</p><p>“Nothing, mate,” Phil replies. “Just grocery shopping. Except I can’t fuckin’ remember which milk we buy.”</p><p>He’s expecting Wilbur to laugh, to drunkenly giggle into the receiver about his failing memory, his old age. He’s not expecting a loud gasp. Something crashes over the line. “Wil? Wilbur, you good, mate? Where are you?”</p><p>There’s another crash, the sound of something toppling over and clinking, and then a swear: Wilbur’s spilled his beer. “Phil? Did you – do you write your grocery list on your hand? Your <em>left</em> hand?”</p><p>“Yes,” Phil says slowly, dragging out the ‘e’. “Wil, what?”</p><p>“Look at your hand right now,” Wilbur demands. His words are no longer slurring. Phil has no clue how he does this – go from drunk out of his mind to coherent and seemingly sober in the span of one second. “What’s written – what did you write?”</p><p>Phil’s mind is spinning. Wilbur must be <em>hammered</em>. Nonetheless, he peers down at his hand, squinting. “Uh. Milk, eggs, flour: Kristin’s making another cake or something for Valentine’s. Oh, and I wrote an idea for a new hardcore build when the new update comes out. I was thinking of calling it – “</p><p>“- Geode Hollow,” Wilbur interrupts. Phil freezes. Nobody knows that yet. Not Twitch, not Twitter, not Kristin. He hadn’t told anyone, only written the idea on his hand under the scrawled shopping list late that morning. If Wilbur knows what the writing on the back of his hand says, then that means –</p><p>Wilbur is his soulmate.</p><p>Phil thought he only ever had one soulmate. Kristin. Her handwriting had been tattooed on his body since he could remember – little doodles on his arms and misspelled kindergarten words on his wrists. They’d grown up together, unknown to one another except through notes and tiny Texta love hearts. When they were older and all hope of meeting was fading, he’d mentioned he was streaming, and Kristin had scoured the entire Twitch.com site in the hopes of finding him. She had, and they were happy, and Phil had thought nothing of the situation since then. He had assumed he was, like most people, destined for only one soulmate. Not that he was complaining. Kristin was more than enough. This – this was a surprise. A pleasant surprise.</p><p>“How come I’ve never seen your handwriting before?” Phil whispers.</p><p>Wilbur’s quiet. “I – I dated this girl, once. It was a long relationship, a committed relationship – a <em>bad</em> relationship. I couldn’t bear the thought of her being my soulmate, us being stuck together forever, so. I just didn’t write anything in fear of finding out the truth. I guess the habit stuck.”</p><p>“Fuck,” Phil frowns. He’s struck with the sudden urge to get in his car and drive to wherever the fuck Wilbur is and wrap him up tight. “That’s – I’m sorry you felt like that, mate.”</p><p>He can practically hear Wilbur’s shrug. “S’okay.” There’s a gulping sound of Wilbur drinking, and then – “I’ve got you now, don’t I?”</p><p>Phil grins. “Yeah. You do.”</p><p>He goes home with a smile on his face and the words ‘<em>hi Dadza’ </em>on his left forearm.</p><p>And without the milk.</p>
<hr/><p>Techno doesn’t draw on his skin. He was raised correctly, okay? He’s not a fucking heathen. He doesn’t need to draw on his skin. There’s no use for inked reminders – he’s got his phone. No point writing important details down. No point in writing phone numbers or names or addresses. He’s normal; he’s got a diary and a planner for those things. He doesn’t write on his skin.</p><p>It’s not because of the soulmate thing. Technoblade isn’t afraid of soulmates, isn’t wary of them. He’s not avoiding the idea by not writing on his skin, he’s simply being…normal. Normal. There’s no worry buried deep in his heart that there’s nobody out there to love him. He doesn’t wonder about the implications of being twenty-one and having no words anywhere on his body. In fact, Technoblade doesn’t believe in soulmates at all.</p><p>It’s the 16<sup>th</sup> of something and they’ve got another lore stream. Techno’s up early because he takes <em>years </em>to wake up properly, and this stream is a big one. He’s still half asleep, left hand propping up his chin, eyes half-lidded, right hand fiddling with his computer mouse. He clicks open Discord and scrolls through channels aimlessly, reading over the script again and again but not really comprehending anything.</p><p>“Ranboo,” He reads, blinking tiredly. “Egg…Bad…the Crimson reaches the Prison…Dream.”</p><p>He pauses and stretches out his hand to scroll with the touchscreen. His shirt sleeve rides up at the action, and Techno pauses.  </p><p>There’s writing on his wrist. Cramped, looping cursive. The letters are all fucked up. The ‘r’s look like ‘a’s and the ‘g’ - or what he’s guessing is a ‘g’ - is horribly deformed.</p><p>
  <em>hello does this work hello i repeat hello is something supposed to happen what am i doing i don’t know what i’m doinggg</em>
</p><p>That’s not his handwriting. That’s not his handwriting.</p><p>Techno stumbles to the bathroom on shaky legs, slamming the door open just in time and falling to his knees in-front of the toilet. The tiles are cold and he presses himself into them, blinking furiously, breathing heavily.</p><p>No. No. This doesn’t mean anything. This doesn’t mean anything. He probably wrote something in his sleep. Perhaps it’s part of the script he wrote down to remember it whilst streaming. Perhaps it’s a line from a book or a quote he wanted to remember. Techno nods, sucking in a trembling breath and trying to trap it in his lungs long enough to actually breathe. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s okay.</p><p>Technoblade does not have a soulmate.</p><p>He reaches up to the sink, grabs the towel there, and scrubs away at his skin.</p>
<hr/><p>The scrubbing doesn’t work. Techno’s arm is red raw and sore and he’s taken a layer of skin off by the time he’s done with it, but the words are still there, etched in between the trickles of blood, unrelenting, unmoving. It’s not going away. The words aren’t going away, and Techno doesn’t know what to do. His hand is moving before he knows it. Phil picks up quicker than Techno can slam a hand on the <em>end call</em> button.</p><p>“Mate,” Phil says, voice gentle. Techno fists the towel, breath rattling, heart pounding. “You need to breath, bud. Can you breathe for me?”</p><p>Techno sucks a breath in. It stutters back out in time with his shaking shoulders. A fat tear falls from his eye to his forearm. It doesn’t mar the words there. The ink does not spill and run - it’s not his ink. It’s his soulmate’s.</p><p>“No,” Techno whispers. “No.”</p><p>“No?” Phil echoes. There’s a clacking sound over the line, and then: “Okay. Google says to breathe in for five - can you do that for me, mate? One, two - yeah, that’s good. Out for seven.”</p><p>Techno counts on his shaking fingers. His face is burning in embarrassment, hot tears clinging to his blotchy cheeks. He’s stupid. He’s a mess. He shouldn’t’ve called. <em>One. Two. Three. Four -</em></p><p>“Good job, bud. Can I - would it be okay if I added Wil to the call?”</p><p>The last part goes unsaid. Wilbur’s had experience with - with stuff like this. <em>Panic attacks</em>, his brain supplies. Techno pushes the thought away and nods before realising it’s a voice call. “Um. Yes.”</p><p>Techno would never admit it, but he loves the little online family they’ve created. His family in real life is lovely - they raised him, clothed him, gave him food and water, but he doesn’t get along very well with them. His Mom and Dad prefer his little siblings, and honestly, he doesn’t blame them. But Phil and Wilbur and Tommy? They love him not out of necessity, not because they have to, but because they want to. They’re unlike his biological family in every sense. Techno <em>grins </em>when he talks to them. He laughs. He has fun. He gets along quite well - scarily well - with all of them.</p><p>“Techno? How’re you doing?”</p><p>Techno clears his throat, swallowing the lump of anxiety wedged in his trachea down. “Hey, Wil. I’m - I’m good.”</p><p>Wilbur snorts over the line. “Yeah, I think the fuck not. That’s okay though,” He amends.</p><p>Techno laughs in spite of himself. He swipes a hand over his face, catching the tears and snot and all the gross shit that comes hand-in-hand with crying and wiping it on his towel in his hands. He’s too exhausted to care.</p><p>“Wanna talk about it, mate?” Phil says. Techno really doesn’t - he’s not good at conversation in any normal setting. He’s literal <em>dogwater</em>, as Tommy would put it, at sharing and talking about his feelings, but for some reason his brain <em>wants </em>to share this with his friends. <em>You can trust them</em>, his head says. For once in his life, he believes it.</p><p>“I got my first soulmate today. It’s just one stupid, massive run-on sentence - there’s not a single element of punctuation, but I hate it.”</p><p>Techno can practically see Phil’s reassuring nod. “That’s understandable. You’re allowed to feel that way, Tech.”</p><p>“What does it say?” Wilbur asks. He doesn’t sound demanding, just curious. With shaky fingers Techno rolls up his sleeve and stares at the words written there.</p><p>And the little sentence under it.</p><p>“There’s - there’s another one,” He whispers, aghast. “Fuck.”</p><p>“You’re okay,” Phil says immediately, like he can sense Techno’s panic through the Discord call. “You’re okay, Tech. It’s not a bad thing to have more than one soulmate - I do.”</p><p>“You do?” Techno pokes the ink on his skin a trembling finger. “Kristin and who else?”</p><p>“Me, bitch,” Wilbur says, but he sounds a bit confused. “Tech, could you read them out for us? If that’s okay?”</p><p>Techno furrows his eyebrows. “Aren’t soulmate writings supposed to be private?” He angles his arm to get a better reading nonetheless and picks his glasses up from where they’d fallen from his face. “Uh. One is literally just rambling, and the other says ‘you’re an idiot’ with a shit drawing of a hardcore heart.”</p><p>The call goes silent for a minute. When Phil speaks he sounds teary. “Hey. I’ll have you know my heart drawings are amazing.”</p><p>Techno stops. “Wh - what? Phil?”</p><p>Wilbur makes a choking sound. “Both of us. We’re both your soulmates. Oh, my god. You’re a fucking idiot, Techno.”</p><p>Techno lets a sob tumble from his throat and into the air. Of course Phil and Wilbur are his soulmates. Of course literally two of the only three people in the world he can bear talking to are his soulmates. “Jesus fuck.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Phil says. The call fills with laughter. “I take it you’re the little notes on our ankles?”</p><p>“<em>Ankles</em>?” Techno echoes. He rolls up the hem of his pants. Sure enough ‘<em>exercise 3a?? ask sir. stream tonite with the big men’ </em>is written there. “Who the fuck writes on ankles? That’s not me. I’ve never written anything.” The call falls silent again. He clears his throat. “I didn’t - I don’t really think I’m that worthy of love, to be honest.”</p><p>“Oh,” Wilbur whispers. “You know we love you, right? We love you heaps, Techno.”</p><p>“We do. I second that.”</p><p>Techno laughs wetly. “I - I love you both. Also.”</p><p>He doesn’t say those three words very much. Techno can’t remember the last time he uttered them. Growing up nobody said them to him, so he never said it back. Saying that was stupidly hard, but it felt so good. Techno feels a smile split his face open and for once he doesn’t push it away. He embraces it.</p><p>“Who’s the writing on our ankles then?”</p><p>There’s a collective groan. Techno pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell. Tommy.”</p>
<hr/><p>TommyInnit has a soulmate.</p><p>Their writing is everywhere – his arms, his hands – his wrists, lately. Their handwriting differs in each message, but he doesn’t think anything of it. There are hearts smothering his arms, little smiley faces on the pads of his fingers, grocery lists on his hands, tentative little sentences with fancy words in the crooks of his elbow and his wrists. His soulmate seems like a pretty cool person, to be honest. He’s learnt quite a few new words from them. They’re good at English, rhyming <em>and </em>forgetting things. He thinks he loves them already.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He’s walking down the school hallway, tripping over his shoelaces and shifting the books in his arms against his chest, practically running across campus to his next class when one of the kids from his Media Studies class – Jared - grabs his arm. The books tumble onto the linoleum floor and spill open. Tommy stares forlornly at the sea of paper flooding the floor. “Oh, man. What the fuck was that for, bro?”</p><p>“You’ve got writing on your arm,” Jared says as if that’s a valid fucking answer. He steps closer to Tommy to read it, pushing his glasses up his nose.</p><p>“Yeah, no shit,” Tommy deadpans. “Dude, I’m gonna be late to class. You know how Miss Peters is. She’s gonna skin us alive – what the hell are you doing?”</p><p>“Reading,” Jared explains. Tommy wrenches his arm out of his classmates’ grip and stumbles away, bending down to pick up the paper strewn everywhere. He should really invest in a glue stick. “Why’ve you got hardcore hearts on your wrist? Is your soulmate a fuckin’ stan?”</p><p>Tommy’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. He abandons the paper and stands up, holding his arm up to the yellow hallway light. Sure enough, little hardcore hearts litter his skin, framing the sentences on his elbows and wrists. He snorts, taking his phone out of his pocket to snap a photo for Phil, because if anyone would appreciate his soulmate’s antics it would be Philza Minecraft. He takes the photo, swipes open his phone, and – oh. Wow. Tommy’s fucking stupid.</p><p>“Can you tell Miss Peters I’m gonna be late?” Tommy says. “I’ve got – I’ve gotta go do something.”</p><p>“I’ll tell her you died in hardcore,” Jared says. Tommy’s not listening. He’s already halfway down the hallway.</p>
<hr/><p>Phil’s house is not that far from Tommy’s school. It’s a five-minute run, but time is relative when you’re TommyInnit. He’s only been to Phil’s place literally once when school let them out early because of a particularly bad storm day, but he still recognises it even though the rest of the houses in the neighbourhood are the exact same. The curtains are all closed upstairs, but Phil’s stupid green car is in the driveway. Tommy jumps the gate, tripping over his limbs, and sprints down the short garden path, coming to an almost comical skid on the Watson’s doorstep.</p><p>“Phiiiiiil,” Tommy screams, finger spamming the doorbell. “Philza Minecraft. Let me iiiiiiiiin.”</p><p>The door swings open. Tommy steps back. </p><p>“Tommy?” Kristin says. “Don’t you have school right now?” </p><p>“Maybe, maybe not,” Tommy answers, grinning. “Time is relative. Hello, Kristin. Is Phil in?” </p><p>Kristin jerks her head noncommittally, opening the door wider and gesturing for him to come inside. Tommy does, but not before aggressively wiping his shoes on their doormat; he ran through some questionable puddles on the way here. “Any particular reason for stopping by?”</p><p>“What, I’m not allowed to visit Dad and Mumza?” Tommy shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the peg next to the door. </p><p>“We love it when you visit, Toms,” Kristin says. Tommy ducks his head, cheeks reddening at the blatant display of love. “Just - I wondered if there was a motive. That’s all.”</p><p>Tommy rolls up his sleeve and holds his bare arm out in lieu of explanation. Kristin looks worried for a second and takes his arm in her hands. A look of understanding crosses her face. “Oh. <em>Oh</em>. I’ll – give me a moment.”</p><p>She takes the stairs two at a time and disappears behind an open door near the landing. Tommy blinks and makes his way into the living room to sit down. He sinks into one of their comfy cracked leather couches. The springs are broken in the middle and he sags, knees flying up to meet his chest.</p><p>They’ve got a very lovely home, one Tommy would totally expect of them. There’s stupidly cute cat posters decorating the walls, dumb ‘home is where the heart is’ pictures above the sink. Tommy squints and notices an aesthetic high-definition Minecraft screenshot of Phil’s Endlantis. It’s too adorable.</p><p>The sound of quick footsteps on the stairs reverberates throughout the house and Tommy springs back up, rubbing at the hearts on his arm anxiously. Phil sticks his head around the doorframe. “Tommy?”</p><p>“Philza Minecraft,” Tommy greets. “How – how are you doing, big man?”</p><p>“Aren’t you supposed to be in school right now?” Phil counters. He’s wearing a dumb anime shirt and the hardcore armbands. Tommy blanches. The adrenaline of the situation has worn off and he’s left with nothing but nervousness.</p><p>“Fuck, were you streaming? I’m – I’m sorry, I can go – “</p><p>“Tommy, no.” Phil crosses the room in two strides and takes Tommy’s hands in his. “What’s up, bud? You okay?”</p><p>Tommy nods furiously, head bobbling like one of those plastic bobble men that sit on the car dashboard. He feels a bit stupid coming all the way here just to tell Phil he’s his –</p><p>“Soulmate,” He blurts. He feels his eyes widen comically and jerks back out of Phil’s grip. “I – sorry. I know I’m like, annoying, and – and sixteen, and – and – “</p><p>Phil cuts him off, pulling him into his chest. Tommy’s taller than him – Phil reaches just up to his nose, so it’s kind of a clumsy hug; Tommy folds over like a Christmas card, head resting in the crook of Phil’s neck, arms looping around his shoulders, knees bent as to offset the height difference. It’s awkward, but it feels like coming home.</p><p>“Kiddo,” Phil says, hand moving up from Tommy’s back to comb through his hair. His voice is gentle and kind and honey-sweet and Tommy leans into it. “I love you so much, yeah?”</p><p>Tommy lets out an embarrassing whimper. “Even if – “</p><p>“Even <em>though</em> you’re my soulmate,” Phil corrects. “I’ll love you forever.” He pauses. “Took you long enough, though.”</p><p>Tommy reels back. “You <em>knew</em>?”</p><p>Phil laughs. “We all did.”</p><p>“<em>You all did?!”</em></p>
<hr/><p>Phil tells a very shell-shocked Tommy to wait outside his office while he ends stream. Tommy complies, bouncing on the balls of his feet to rid himself of his newfound adrenaline.</p><p>“Okay, chat,” He can hear Phil say, “sorry for the short stream. I’ll probably stream, like, tomorrow or something to make up for it. I’m sending you all to Ranboo; go and say ‘hi’, yeah?”</p><p>There’s a laugh followed by the clicking of a keyboard, and then the door opens again.</p><p>“Sorry I made you end stream,” Tommy says. He catches the bit of skin against his nailbed with his thumb and pulls. “You didn’t have to do that, y’know.”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up,” Phil says, not unkindly. “You’re a billion times more important than chat or a fuckin’ stream. C’mere.”</p><p>He pulls up the other chair in the room and pats the seat, smiling. Tommy weaves infront of a pile of precariously stacked merch boxes and slips through the gap in the green screen, sitting down tentatively. Phil fiddles with something on screen and then turns to face him. “Y’know,” he says, “It’s kind of weird how our little online family turned out to be real.”</p><p>Tommy cracks a grin. Phil shuffles over, pushing their chairs as close as possible and stringing an arm around his neck. Tommy leans into the touch automatically, and Phil lets out a soft chuckle. “I love you, mate.”</p><p>“Love you too,” Tommy smiles.</p><p>There’s a shout of indignance from Phil’s PC, and Tommy jerks up from his pseudo-father’s hold. Wilbur’s cheeky smile and Techno’s grainy face swims before his eyes. His whole family is here. The thought strikes him like lightning, and Tommy feels himself glow just a bit brighter. This whole thing is magical, and he’s insanely lucky to be able to share it with them all.</p><p>Techno hums. “It’s surreal, isn’t it? Out of everyone, we’re all soul – soulmates.”</p><p>“It is,” Wilbur says. Tommy curls into Phil’s side a bit more. “But I wouldn’t change it for the world.”</p><p>“Any truers?”</p><p>Techno bursts out laughing at Tommy’s words, and then Wilbur is giggling and Phil’s shoulders are shaking as he wheezes and Tommy feels the corners of his eyes crinkle up. He glances down at the words on his arms – Techno, Wilbur, and Phil’s words, and laughs too.</p>
<hr/><p>They all write a lot more after that.</p><p>Wilbur scribbles everywhere. He keeps a spare pen always on his person – in his pocket, the hem of his pants, in his bag – just in case an idea strikes. His hands are constantly tattooed in the song lyrics he would normally jot in a notebook, arms covered in scratchy verses, ideas for chord progressions, notes for a melody line. His soulmates write little words of encouragement next to them. Techno corrects his rhyming pattern and offers up big words.</p><p>Phil starts writing lunchbox-esque words of encouragement. It starts as a joke – <em>Tommy, don’t forget your lunch! Dadza packed you choccy milk! – </em>and quickly morphs into something more sincere. <em>Good luck on your maths test today, Toms! You got this! Techno, make sure to eat something today – you’ve still got that fettuccini in your fridge. Loved your song last night, Wil. </em>There’s not a day none of them go without a smile; Phil’s words are always filled with love, no matter how corny.</p><p>Techno starts out with fleeting messages, little ‘hellos’ and affectionate taunts next to his soulmate’s writings. It takes him a bit, but eventually Techno can hold a pen to his skin and not feel his heartbeat jump. He finds solace it in it. He <em>likes </em>it.</p><p>And, when Tommy decides writing the entirety of <em>Blitz </em>on his left forearm is funny, Techno’s comfortable enough to strike back.</p><p>“I swear to <em>fucking</em> god, Blade! I have fucking school photos today, and – oh my god. Take it off. Get it off, Techno. I can’t go to school with ‘blood for the blood god’ written on my forehead.”</p><p>Techno keeps the voicemail.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank u all so much for reading! go ahead and drop some comments and kudos - they make my day :) love you all sm! </p><p>follow me here:</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://wednesdayyevening.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a><br/><a href="https://https://twitter.com/wednesdayevenng/">twitter</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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